


On the Presidio

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Artist Keith (Voltron), Disney References, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Museums, Post-Canon, Season 8 Doesn't Exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 12:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18549517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: On a day off after the war, Shiro takes Keith out for a surprise. Never would Keith have guessed that the surprise was a trip to the Disney Museum, of all places. The surprises don't stop there, though.





	On the Presidio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zjofierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/gifts).



> Fic request from [zjo](https://twitter.com/zjofierose), who asked for Keith and Shiro going to the "Hippos at the Presidio" exhibit at the Disney Museum. 
> 
> I have never been to this museum, so there were some liberties taken with the layout. If I'm not accurate, just assume the museum's undergone some changes leading up to when Shiro and Keith would be frolicking around in it. 
> 
> And if you aren't familiar with what hippos I'm referring to, [enjoy.](https://disney.fandom.com/wiki/Hippos_\(Fantasia\)) I recommend looking the short up on youtube, if you want. But also obviously zero knowledge of Disney is needed to read this fic. 
> 
> Finally, a massive thank you, as always, to [Juna](https://twitter.com/springofviolets) for reading this over for me.
> 
> (Edited December 2019 for typos/grammar.)

“I still don’t see why I have to keep my eyes shut the _entire_ time we’re in the air,” Keith mutters from the co-pilot’s seat in Shiro’s borrowed aircraft. 

Despite his words, he keeps his eyes shut as promised, and hears Shiro laugh beside him. 

“I can’t have you knowing which direction we’re flying in. It’ll ruin the surprise,” Shiro says.

“Right,” Keith says, dryly, fighting back a smile. “Because once I see that we’re heading, hmmmm… northeast, I’ll know _exactly_ where we’re going.”

It’s more a test than anything else, to see if Shiro will betray anything from Keith’s random direction choice. Damnably, Shiro only laughs again and says nothing. Shiro can always see through Keith’s tricks, so he can’t really be disappointed at the failed gambit. 

He’s kept his eyes closed the whole flight, as instructed. Keith has no idea which flight path Shiro took off the Garrison base, so he really has no way to discern which direction they’re heading in. Maybe if he could open his eyes, he’d know instantly from the position of the sun, but that wouldn’t really elaborate on where, exactly, they’re headed. 

Really, Shiro just has too much faith in Keith’s ability to figure out where they’re going based purely on direction and time in the air. That isn’t a surprise, really. Shiro’s always the first to sing Keith’s praises and expect the best in him. 

Keith doesn’t startle when Shiro touches his arm, his fingers ghosting. Even if Keith didn’t see it coming, the touch is welcome. Shiro squeezes his wrist gently before withdrawing with a quiet, “I promise it’s not too much longer now. Thanks for humoring me.” 

Keith only hums to that. He’s long since resigned himself that when it comes to Shiro, he’s willing to indulge his best friend in anything. Whisking him away on one of their rare days off and heading in some random direction is just one of the many things he’ll always go along with for Shiro. It’s hardly a hardship. 

Inevitably, the ship begins its descent as Shiro pilots to wherever their ending destination is. Keith waits patiently as Shiro lands, docks, and powers down the engines in the little flyer they’ve borrowed from the Garrison for the day. 

Keith keeps his eyes shut but can’t help but laugh when he senses Shiro’s hand waving in front of his face to test he’s not secretly peeking. “You’re a little late for that, aren’t you?” 

Shiro laughs. The sound is rich and honeyed, and Keith barely resists a shiver at the sound of it. He’s kept his eyes shut for a while now, after all. It’s only logical that he’d have to focus on the other senses, such as the deep timbre of Shiro’s laughter, the way it washes over Keith and leaves him breathless. Or maybe he’d have done that anyway. Shiro’s been laughing more and more lately. They both have; it’s the happy consequence of years of peace and Keith’s always going to zero in on the sound of Shiro’s happiness. 

“Come on,” Shiro tells him, gently, and takes Keith’s hands in his. The Altean hand is cool to the touch and Keith’s hand feels dwarfed within it, while Shiro’s other hand is warm against Keith’s, his fingers curling around Keith’s palm, thumb pressed to his knuckles in a way that, to Keith, feels entirely too intimate. 

But then, he’s always been focusing too much on those little things. He lets Shiro lead him through the ship and through their disembarking, keeping his eyes shut. Shiro leads him away from the ship by a few meters and then stops. Keith halts obediently when Shiro tells him to. 

“Got my backpack?” Keith asks.

“And your coat,” Shiro assures him. “You’re good to go, buddy.” 

He regrets the moment Shiro lets go of his hands, but a moment later, he senses Shiro moving behind him. He can feel the heat of his body radiating at his back. Then those same hands land over Keith’s eyes, the Altean hand nearly enough to cover Keith’s entire face. 

“Really?” Keith teases, grinning. 

“Really,” Shiro says. “Okay. Get ready.” 

Keith can’t possibly imagine where they are or where Shiro’s taken them. He can hear city sounds all around them, he thinks. At the very least, it’s more urban than rural. Keith steels himself for whatever they’re about to see. 

Shiro counts down from three and then, with a flourish, whips his hands away from over Keith’s eyes. 

“Ta da!” he says, triumphantly, as Keith blinks his eyes open. 

Keith squints against the onslaught of sun as his eyes adjust to the light. When his vision clears, he sees that they’re, indeed, in a city. He doesn’t immediately recognize it, though. Keith lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and peers out over the landscape, his other hand on his hip. He studies the smattering of buildings, the deep blue of the bay, and finally the telltale red bridge with its high steeples. 

“Huh,” Keith huffs and then turns to look at Shiro. “New San?” 

They’re in the heart of the city, it looks like, on top of one of the many skyscrapers’ landing pads for incoming and outgoing air traffic, close to the bay. 

Shiro nods, grinning, brimming over with excitement. Keith just takes a moment to look at him, the way Shiro tips forward on his toes and rocks back onto his heels, excited and expectant. Keith can’t remember Shiro ever being that interested in New San Francisco before, or any other reason he’d go through all the effort to get him here for a surprise. Keith’s certainly never expressed an interest in California. 

Shiro, apparently, gets tired of waiting for Keith to figure it out, his hands falling to Keith’s shoulders and guiding him to the edge of the landing pad and pointing downwards to the city streets below. 

“There,” Shiro says, his breath warm and intimate against the shell of Keith’s ear as he leans over his shoulder and points. 

Keith squints to where Shiro points. _Walt Disney Family Museum,_ the large banner on the front of one building declares, as if the statue of Mickey Mouse wasn’t a dead giveaway on its own. 

Keith stands there, a little uncertain how he’s supposed to take this. There has to be a reason Shiro’s brought him here. It isn’t a problem, but he can’t help but give Shiro a slightly perplexed look in a short glance. 

“Wh…” Keith begins and trails off, uncertain what to say. He can’t recall if he’s ever betrayed an interest in Disney. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t. “Huh.” 

“It has hippos!” Shiro declares, like that explains everything. And maybe it does. Keith’s always loved hippos, after all, and Shiro knows that. Keith feels his cheeks warm up. He’s never exactly _said_ how much he likes hippos— but leave it to Shiro to notice anyway. 

He’s happy to spend time with Shiro, regardless, but he never would have guessed this as their destination. _Keith likes hippos_ hardly seems like a satisfactory reason to travel all the way to Northern California. 

Keith turns to look up at Shiro and, not for the first time, marvels at how much he cares for this ridiculous man, the California sun hitting his flushed face enough that he seems to glow, his hair swept up in the wind, like _he’s_ a damn Disney prince. He looks so stupidly proud of himself that, from anyone else, Keith would just feel embarrassed on their behalf. But this is Shiro, so instead Keith is hopelessly endeared and in love. Shiro’s always known exactly how to casually devastate Keith.

Keith smiles up at him, helpless against the swell of affection that presses against his throat, begging to be expressed. He’s gotten good at leaving such words unexpressed, holding them protectively in the center of his chest. He knows it must show on his face, but Shiro’s always been good at politely ignoring that in favor of maintaining their friendship. 

“So… just to clarify: you brought me to California to take me to a hippo museum,” Keith says, looking up at a beaming Shiro. Keith reaches out to take his backpack from where it’s slung on Shiro’s shoulder.

“Yep,” Shiro says, so very pleased with himself, holding out Keith's coat to him so he can shove it into the backpack and zip it up. Then, Shiro grabs Keith by the wrist, tugging. “Come on. We already wasted a good part of the morning getting here.” 

Keith can’t help the stupid laugh that bubbles up as he lets Shiro drag them down to the elevator off the landing pad. It’s an efficient journey down, and he and Shiro cross the sky-bridge over the busy streets of New San to get to the museum. 

“There are other exhibits, too,” Shiro explains. “But I saw the hippo thing and thought you’d get a kick out of it.” He turns towards Keith, looking a little shy for the first time that morning. “Is this too stupid?” 

Keith shakes his head even as the question’s only half-formed, hands in his pockets and hip-checking Shiro as they approach the entrance. “Museums are cool. I can be cultured if the mood strikes me.” 

Shiro snorts and hip-checks him back before he pulls Keith in closer by his backpack, unzips it, and fishes out one of their datapads. He pulls up the tickets— he must have bought them beforehand— and lets the museum’s front desk scan it with a cheerful little chirp from the scanner. 

They make their way towards the exhibit, Keith bemused more than anything else. They pass through the bright and open lobby that branches off into various different wings. The exhibit Shiro wants to show him— _Hippos on the Presidio_ — branches off from the left. 

Keith can’t even begin to pretend he frequents museums, but it’s hard not to feed off Shiro’s energy. He’s smiling at Keith and, well, Keith’s never been able to resist that smile. It’s impossible for him to not smile back when Shiro turns to look at his face. Shiro does know him. Keith might not know much about the Disney-style hippos, but he _does_ like the animal. 

The exhibit’s divided up into several rooms, connected by open archways, and Shiro and Keith wander aimlessly around the first room. The room’s filled with pages and pages of concept art. The art appreciator in Keith (he can’t quite call himself an artist, he thinks, despite Shiro’s enthusiasm whenever he actually shows Shiro a doodle) loves seeing them, the gentle lines of pencil against the page, the expressions. It’s all enough to make Keith pause, really studying it. 

He has his sketchbook in his backpack, although he doesn’t dare reach for it. It feels stupid, to want to draw when viewing art from over a century ago, knowing that he’s never really going to compare. He’s no artist. But there’s something sweet about following the long lines of paper as hippo ballerinas dance across the pages and pages lined out in their glass cases.

He must have paused too long, though, stared for too long, enough so that he loses track of where Shiro is. He comes back to himself when he feels Shiro press a hand gently to his back to get his attention, and his hand is a source of heat pressed into his skin, heavy and warm, a brand pressed into his spine. Keith looks up, almost startled, and then blushes.

“Uh, sorry,” he says. “I kinda zoned out.” 

Shiro just smiles, something gentle in his expression. But then, of course Shiro’s always going to understand Keith; he’s never really had to explain himself. “Didn’t mean to interrupt you.” 

Keith shakes his head, painfully aware that Shiro’s hand still rests against his back. He almost leans back against it, but resists. He holds still instead, hoping that if he doesn’t move, then Shiro’s hand will stay there. 

Shiro must feel that Keith’s holding his breath, though, because after a moment his hand slides, just an inch down his spine, and then draws away, returning to Shiro’s side. He smiles at Keith, warm and sweet and completely unaware. 

Keith clears his throat, stepping away from the concept art on display and tilting his head in a nod towards the next room. “Want to keep moving?” 

“Sure,” Shiro agrees, and trails after Keith as he leads the way towards the next room. 

It’s the next stage of art development, it seems, the colored cells and background design up in wide swaths of canvas on the walls. Keith drinks it all in, smiling to himself. It isn’t longing he feels— he hardly feels like he missed a chance with art— but more of that quiet what if. Being a Paladin of Voltron means that deep understanding of other realities, after all. Maybe somewhere out there, he’s an artist for real. 

He laughs at the thought and shakes his head when Shiro makes an inquisitive sound. “Nothing,” he clarifies, looking up at Shiro. He watches Shiro study the canvas of painted backgrounds up on the wall. “Just thinking of ‘the road not taken’ or whatever.” 

Shiro hums again, turning to Keith with that casually handsome smile of his. “Thinking about quitting being a pilot and becoming a cartoonist?” 

“Not quite,” Keith says. “You’re still stuck with me.” 

Shiro laughs, expression gentle. “Happily stuck.” 

Keith’s chest warms and he laughs back, bumping his shoulder up against Shiro’s before heading into the next room. There’s footage of animators storyboarding and flipping between pages, the early stages of creating an old movie. Keith watches it all, wandering between displays and plaques describing the process and history. There are more sketches of the hippos, accompanied now by the ostriches, elephants, and crocodiles. Shiro tails him, reading the posters as well. Keith knows Shiro doesn’t have a lot of investment in this sort of thing, but Shiro also likes to learn, and so they pass through the exhibit in relative quiet, thoughtful and relaxed in one another’s presence. 

“If you wanted to, though,” Shiro says, picking the thread back up, “I bet you could.” 

“That’s really sweet,” Keith answers, smiling but shaking his head. “But I’m pretty sure that’s not how the art world works.” 

Shiro doesn’t deny as much and accepts Keith’s dismissal. Still, something warm simmers in Keith’s belly and he finds his smile lingering, even as he turns towards the displays once more. 

He studies the sweeps of the pencil lines, how perfectly an animator long gone captured a hippo’s movements as she tip-toes her way through a ballet sequence. Keith knows nothing about dancing, but he can appreciate the way the hippo moves across the page, the way the animator portrayed her gracefulness, her balance and transfer of weight, her peacefully pleased expression.

Shiro is quiet as he follows Keith. He sometimes pauses at other points Keith passes by, but for the most part they stay near one another. Keith gets the distinct impression that Shiro is mostly studying Keith more than the hippos. 

As they move into the next room of the exhibit, Keith’s a little surprised to see more people. There have been few people in the rooms, Keith’s noticed, the exhibit likely not as popular as other wings of the museum. 

But it’s clear soon enough that it’s not the concept art that’s drawing so much attention. 

“Oh, cute,” Shiro says, “They have one of those old photobooths.” 

Keith snorts, taking in the modest line for the photobooth, which has a box of props on a little table just outside of it. There’s a group of teenagers wearing princess crowns piling into the booth currently, laughing as they try to squeeze five people into a very limited space. 

Keith’s more used to people now, he thinks, but still his shoulders skitter up a bit towards his ears when people keep bumping into him to get past him and head towards the line. 

Of course, Shiro must sense it, his fingers curling a loose circle around Keith’s wrist and tugging. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s rest and wait for the crowd to die down a bit, yeah?” 

Keith’s grateful for it, nodding and letting Shiro lead them to a bench. It’s tucked away in a far-off corner in the room, less-traveled and less-populated. It isn’t completely hidden, but it gives them a degree of privacy. They drop down to sit together and Keith sighs, stretching his legs out. 

It’s hardly a large (or overly loud) amount of people— it is still a museum, after all— but from this vantage point, Keith can see out into the main central lobby of the museum and all the snaking corridors leading to different exhibits. He and Shiro watch the line grow for the photobooth, listening to the giggles from various groups as bright flashes punctuate the dim room. 

Keith settles for people-watching. They have a good vantage point for that. Keith watches families, young couples, groups of friends, elder couples, all manner of people wander by as they turn towards the labyrinth of side-passages for the different exhibits. There’s a gaggle of girls and boys getting shepherded by a couple teachers towards the most popular exhibit on the fifty-five Disney princesses. There’s a group of elderly people heading towards the exhibit on the Second Renaissance of Disney films. 

Keith laughs. “People sure are into this stuff, huh?” 

“Not you?” Shiro asks. He looks a bit shy.

Keith shrugs, but is quick to reassure him, “I like hippos.” He looks up at Shiro, smiling, and tips to the side, resting his head on his shoulder for a moment. “I like that you thought of me.” 

Shiro’s cheeks flush pink and he perks up. He shifts a bit, his shoulder slumping so Keith’s resting at a less awkward angle. Keith thinks, distantly, that he should sit back up again but Shiro is comfortable and he’s clearly unbothered. That’s just how they’ve always been, after all. Keith can’t recall the first time casual touch became a thing for them, really, only that it seems to have always been so. 

Keith doesn’t mind it. Most days, all he wants is a hug from Shiro and that’s enough to make a crappy day somewhat better. Sometimes, though, it plucks at his heart, leaves him feeling that strange sort of empty, a longing that he’s learned to accept as inevitable. 

“I was always a bigger fan of Harrison Studios,” Shiro agrees. 

“Let me guess. You were a fan of _The Adventures of Blink?_ ” 

Shiro snorts. “How’d you guess?” 

“A mouse determined to build his own starship and get to the moon? Oh, just a lucky guess,” Keith teases and Shiro elbows him gently with a chuckle. 

“I had a crush on Blink when I was a kid,” Shiro confesses.

“Of _course_ you did,” Keith answers, laughing. It’s loud enough that a couple of people shoot him a look and he quiets, but can’t quite muffle his smile as he rests against Shiro’s shoulder. 

“What about you?” Shiro asks.

Keith considers for a moment and then shrugs. “I guess I liked _The Lion King_ alright.” 

“The original remake or the remake of the remake?” 

“The fifth remake,” Keith decides. “That’s the first one I saw.” 

Shiro hums and then laughs. “Who would have ever guessed the guy watching lion movies would grow up to pilot a sentient lion someday?” 

Keith elbows Shiro with a laugh, blushing, his hand dropping to touch Shiro’s thigh for a fraction of a second before he shifts it away. “You’re right, but shut up.” 

They both glance at each other and laugh again. Once it fades, though, they smile at each other and then lapse into silence. They’re quiet for a time, just resting, watching the people as they pass by. Keith finds that almost more fascinating than anything else. He isn’t one for doing much people watching, in the end, but something itches inside him to draw, to capture the way each person moves, unique and independent of anyone else. The slump of their shoulders, the hunches of their backs, the tips of their chins, their resting expressions, their gaits. 

He realizes, after a moment, that Shiro’s watching him. He wrenches his eyes away from a group of Olkari trying to puzzle through the map display on the wall to find their way to the exhibit on Disney’s unfortunate three decades of clay animation feature films and focuses on Shiro instead.

“What?” he asks, embarrassed.

Shiro shakes his head and his eyes flicker away briefly, sweeping over the room, before settling back on Keith. “Like what you’re seeing?” 

“Please,” Keith laughs, and kicks his foot against Shiro’s just to hear Shiro chuckle, warm and honeyed. “I dunno. Was actually kind of thinking how I’d try to draw some of these people.”

Shiro beams, looking thrilled. “Keith, you should!” 

Keith feels himself turn pink, always taken aback by Shiro’s enthusiasm. He doesn’t draw a ton, and nothing truly noteworthy. He can’t recall the last sketch he showed Shiro, only knows that Shiro was unrelentingly and almost aggressively supportive. It makes Keith smile now, if shyly. 

“Feels a little weird to try drawing when I’m surrounded by old experts,” Keith says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the wall of concept art. He shrugs. “Maybe in a minute.” 

“Sure,” Shiro agrees, and doesn’t push him. He looks around, studying the concept art and the finished pieces, gaze thoughtful and lingering. He seems to study them better than he has this entire time. This time, Keith just watches him. 

If he could, he’d draw a hundred sketches just of Shiro’s face. Every angle of his jaw, quirk of his mouth, furrow of his brow. He knows he could practice for a hundred years and never quite capture him. 

“This animator,” Shiro says, gesturing to the series of hippos outlined in blue ink rather than pencil, “They keep messing up third position. Look at the knees.”

“It’s a hippo. Dancing ballet.” Keith swivels his head around to give Shiro an amused look, teasing, “Like you can really tell.” 

“Sure I can.” 

Keith shakes his head. “You always have to be an expert on everything?” 

Shiro’s forehead scrunches up adorably as he looks at Keith, surprised. “Wait… have I seriously not told you about my ill-fated ballet class?” 

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Keith asks. “No. You haven’t.” 

Shiro laughs, embarrassed. “It’s not exciting. When I was a kid, one of my doctors recommended I try ballet. She thought it might be a good way for me to build muscle strength and fix my balance.” 

Keith leans back, looking at Shiro anew. He marvels, briefly, at the thought that there could still be things he has left to learn about Shiro. Shiro grins at him, cheeks pink but looking pleased with himself. Keith sweeps his eyes over Shiro— hardly for the first time and in this case, the gesture plainly for show— trying to imagine Shiro holding any position, much less the third position.

“I can’t picture it,” Keith decides. He adds, teasing, “You don’t look like a ballerina.”

“Excuse you,” Shiro snorts. “I’ll have you know that I’m incredibly graceful. I was really good at leaping.” He shrugs. “But you’re right… I didn’t stick with it. I only did it for about a year, maybe two.” 

Keith shakes his head, fondly. “Wow. I feel like I don’t even know you.” 

“My teacher was _devastated_ when I quit. He said I was the only person who could lift everyone else,” Shiro says, chuckling. 

A moment ago, Keith couldn’t picture Shiro dancing ballet. But now, he’s having a hard time dismissing the image of Shiro wearing very tight leggings and lifting Keith over his head, easily and without fanfare. His thighs would flex as he pushed up, his arms tensed to steady Keith’s weight. His hair would fall in his eyes, maybe, or sweep back, his expression determined and steady. His body would be in a delicate arch, one foot poised, his hands firm on Keith’s body. 

He’d make it look effortless. He’d look amazing, as he does in everything he tries. The image alone is enough to steal Keith’s breath away, embarrassingly. 

Shiro looks a little too knowing, if self-deprecating. “Trying to picture it?” 

“A little,” Keith admits, blushing. There’s no way Shiro can have any idea just what, exactly, Keith is picturing. 

“I can show you,” Shiro says, hopping up from the bench. Keith’s eyes widen. 

He watches as Shiro steps back and, effortlessly, as if he’s been doing it every day since he was a kid, takes up the first position and moves through each subsequent position, fluid and precise. It’s perfunctory, hardly anything at all, but Keith’s enraptured. Shiro sweeps his arm into an exaggerated bow once he’s finished. 

“I’m honestly shocked right now,” Keith confesses. 

“Thanks,” Shiro says, looking triumphant. He plants his toe on the floor and rolls his ankle absently, and he looks so young, suddenly, that Keith can only take a moment to admire him. He can’t help it. Shiro’s always been arresting, and even more so now. 

“Have you ever thought about picking it back up again? Now that the war’s over?” Keith asks. 

Shiro shakes his head. “I think that ship’s sailed, you know? I’m not quite the right body type for ballet anymore.” 

“Fuck that,” Keith decides, immediately. “They’d be lucky to have you and you’d look beautiful, Shiro.” 

Shiro’s entire face turns red. Keith wonders if he’s being too obvious. 

“Thanks, Keith,” Shiro murmurs, voice hushed. He sits back down beside Keith on the bench. “It’s strange,” Shiro says, thoughtfully. “I never really… had hobbies as a kid, you know? All I did was study and work hard so I could get into the Garrison. And then all I could focus on was becoming a pilot.” 

Keith frowns and nods. He didn’t particularly have hobbies, either, but that was more the lack of funds with his time in the system; one of the couples he stayed with for a time entertained the idea of giving him piano lessons but quickly abandoned the idea when they decided he didn’t have the discipline for it. 

“I guess I just… Now that the war’s over and Voltron’s gone, I kind of…” Shiro sighs and shrugs. He looks out over the room, eyes skirting along the dancing hippos, straying over the line at the photobooth, and out towards the opening to the lobby. “Everyone has their thing, you know? Hunk’s been baking more. Allura’s _super_ into croquet lately.” He shrugs again, as if that’ll offset the quietness to his tone, that understated way Keith knows means that this is something bothering Shiro. “I’m glad everyone has things they can focus on. And you, too. I know you like drawing. I guess I’m still figuring out what I like.” 

“Just because Voltron’s gone doesn’t mean we’re done flying,” Keith tells him. He lifts his hand, touching Shiro’s jaw gently, enough to guide him back to look at him, so their eyes meet. “We have time, Shiro. There’s still a lot of the universe left to explore, right?” 

Shiro’s smile is tentative, tilted up higher at one edge, and even though Keith never knew him as a boy, he thinks he can imagine what Shiro must have looked like back then, looking up at the stars and _hoping_. 

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “You’re right.” 

Keith’s fingertips linger at Shiro’s jaw, a moment too long, before he drops it away. He rests his hand on Shiro’s shoulder instead, squeezing. 

“Of course I’m right,” Keith says, confident. 

Shiro laughs, and it warms his entire face. His hand lifts and covers Keith’s where it rests on his shoulder, squeezing once. “How about this,” Shiro decides, “I’ll take a ballet class if you take a painting class.” 

“What, we going to enroll at the community college or something?” Keith snorts. His eyes stray to where their hands rest against one another. 

“We could,” Shiro answers. His thumb ghosts over Keith’s knuckles, an absent gesture. “We could take a summer class so it doesn’t interfere with piloting too much?” 

Keith laughs, shaking his head, maybe a little disbelieving. But in his chest, his heart is doing something funny, all twisted up and pressing against his throat. He swallows it back down and looks at Shiro.

“How about this instead,” Keith says, slowly, drawing his hand away, fingertips ghosting along Shiro’s collarbone. “You and I take both classes. Together. I’ll dance with you, Shiro. You can lift me, no problem.”

“Bet you could lift _me_ now, really,” Shiro answers, but his smile is gentle and wide, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in amusement. 

“That’ll probably be the only thing I’m good at,” Keith admits. He tries very hard not to imagine holding Shiro up above him. Or letting him down to press against the length of his body and—

“You’re good at so many things,” Shiro answers, immediate and earnest. Keith blushes. 

Before Keith can say anything else, Shiro stands, tugging Keith up from the bench with him. Keith nearly stumbles as Shiro steps back, letting go of his hand. Then Shiro takes a deliberate, dancer step towards Keith, toe to heel. And it should look ridiculous, Shiro in street clothes, in the center of a room in a museum, and yet it’s sensual enough that it sends a spike of desire down Keith’s spine. He only has time to swallow the lump in his throat before Shiro is there, his hand ghosting at Keith’s waist and across his belly as he circles him, then dips down to curl possessively around him and, effortlessly, lift him up. Keith only has time to loop an arm around Shiro in turn to anchor himself there. 

Together, they spin, and Shiro breaks the moment by laughing and Keith can’t help but laugh back, his arm tight around Shiro’s shoulder, Shiro’s hand pressed hard against his side. When Shiro sets Keith back down again, his hand lingers at his hip, then shifts to touch the small of his back, a fire brand. Then, wordlessly, it drops away and they’re left just looking at each other. 

“There,” Shiro says, voice definitely lower than before. “That’s my one good move.”

“It’s a good move,” Keith says, faintly, and wants so desperately to kiss him. Goosebumps rise on his arms, having nothing to do with the cool museum air. He stares into Shiro’s eyes. 

A shriek from the photobooth breaks the moment and Keith’s eyes flicker away, frowning. There’s a group of boys trying to shove themselves into the photobooth, all of them wearing hippo-eared headbands. He makes a show of rolling his eyes before looking back at Shiro. 

Shiro’s smiling. It’s devastatingly handsome, but that’s hardly a new revelation. “I showed you mine,” Shiro says, “Now show me yours.”

“Huh?” Keith asks, stupidly, too busy staring at Shiro’s mouth to think logically. 

“Draw me something,” Shiro says, but it’s not a demand, never a demand with Shiro. He adds, “If you want.” 

Normally, Keith would refuse or demur, or just get embarrassed. But his body still sings from the feeling of Shiro’s arm wrapped around him, that very brief shadow of a dance with him. He sits down on the bench and digs through his backpack, pulling out his sketchbook without a word. Shiro looks absurdly excited, far more than the situation asks for, and sits down, too. He looks at Keith expectantly. 

“Any requests?” Keith asks, studying Shiro’s face and wishing he had the skills to ever do him justice.

“Surprise me,” Shiro offers, kind. 

So Keith scoots himself along the bench, drawing his legs up to plant his sketchbook against them and hide it from Shiro’s view. 

“You need to not look at me, though. Too embarrassing,” Keith mutters and Shiro obeys, swiveling in his seat and looking around the room instead, studying the dancing hippos with their crocodile partners once more. 

Keith works quickly. He fumbles a bit, starting and stopping. Shiro overestimates Keith’s ability; he’s no artist, not really. He just likes to draw. The other Paladins make fun of him for it, still, ever since they were tested by Bob. That was years ago now, but Keith can’t quite suggest he’s gotten much better since then, although now he has more time to work. At least he’s better than Allura. 

Keith takes his time. He sketches shapes with no purpose, just to warm up, considering what he wants to do. He looks around the room, studies what Shiro’s studying— the hippos, mid-pirouette, all their crocodile partners trying to dive after them. 

His pencil flicks along the page as he doodles a hippo. If Shiro’s critical of an expert’s take on the third position, Keith can’t imagine his is much better, but he does his best. It’s almost second-nature when he adds a floof of hair to the top of the hippo’s head, a little scar over his nose. The more he sketches, the more the hippo starts to take shape— and the more it’s so clearly just a Shiro-inspired hippo dancing. 

He’s shy when he finishes, unsure if he can actually show this to Shiro. He’s already taken way too much time on it. He clears his throat, drawing Shiro’s attention back towards him and just takes the plunge, flipping the page around to show him. 

Shiro spends far too long looking at the dumb doodle on the page, his smile so unbearably soft. There’s the little tuft of hair and the scar over the nose, and Keith did his best to recreate Shiro’s Altean arm as a hippo arm, poised over his head in a ballet pose. A Shiro Hippo. 

It’s stupid, Keith thinks. 

“Oh,” Shiro whispers. “I love it.”

The bottom drops out of Keith’s stomach and he wants to protest, wants to fling his sketchbook away so Shiro would just stop looking. He swallows. “Yeah? You don’t think it’s too silly?”

“It’s perfect,” Shiro tells him, looking up to meet his eyes. “I make a cute hippo.” 

Keith flips the book around and rips the page out, unceremoniously, and hands it over to Shiro. 

“It’s yours.” 

Shiro is far more gentle as he takes the page, folding it so the hippo himself doesn’t get creased up. He beams down at it, studying each little line that Keith’s made. Keith will never think his work is worthy of such scrutiny and affection, but he can’t deny he feels warm inside knowing that Shiro is looking at something he’s made with such care. 

“Hey, Keith, I…” Shiro begins and pauses, just looking at the hippo for a moment before up at Keith. He bites his lip. 

“What’s up?” Keith prompts gently. 

“We don’t really have a lot of pictures together,” Shiro says, and tilts his head towards the booth. “Want to?” 

Keith considers and then shrugs, tucking his sketchbook back into his backpack and zipping it up before standing. “Sure. But I’m not wearing hippo ears.”

“That’s a requirement,” Shiro teases and they head towards the booth. The line’s waned in the time they’ve been on the bench, and Keith and Shiro only have to wait for a few people in front of them before Shiro’s digging triumphantly through the box. 

Despite Keith’s claim, he does end up grabbing a pair of hippo ears and plunking them on his head. He means it sarcastically, maybe, but then Shiro looks unreasonably pleased, so he leaves them on. Shiro fishes out a stupid little cap with a feather like what the crocodiles wear in the movie before they both duck into the photobooth. 

It’s a tight squeeze and it takes a bit of maneuvering before they can both sit, comfortably, on the ridiculously small bench within the booth. 

Keith scoots forward and plugs in the information— it’s free with admittance to the museum, it seems— and he decides to just hit the button without preamble to get it started. 

“Okay, I think this’ll work,” Keith says, just as the first flash goes off. He whips back with his eyes wide. “Oh, shit!” 

Shiro laughs at Keith’s reaction and pulls Keith in so they can slide quickly into one another’s space. They’re pressed, cheek to cheek, and Keith feels Shiro’s face split into a wide smile. The flash goes again just as Keith is mid-grin, likely mid-blink. 

“Oh, no, your ears,” Shiro says quickly, reaching up to try and quickly fix the hippo headband for Keith, but the flash goes again just as Keith tips his chin up to look at Shiro. 

One photo left. Keith can see that Shiro’s just given up on any good pictures, since he huffs a breath, rolls his eyes, and then tilts his head towards the camera to stick his tongue out. Keith laughs and gives the camera the middle finger, perfectly poised as the last camera flash blinds him. 

“Well, that went well,” Keith says, laughing. Shiro laughs, too, breathless and fuzzy in Keith’s spotted vision. His fez hat is knocked slightly askew. 

They exit the booth and wait for the pictures to develop. Keith can’t imagine that it’s going to be anything other than ugly as sin. He ignores the giggling from the couple in the booth who entered behind them, two girls wearing matching cat masks. 

With a low groan, the photobooth spits out their strip of four photos. Shiro pulls the photo sheet once it’s deposited and studies it for a moment with a laugh before tipping it so Keith can see it, too, from where he’s crowded up into Shiro’s space. 

“Definitely a failure,” Keith decides, but knows his voice sounds soft even to his own ears. He can’t stop looking at Shiro in the photos.

Keith’s fuzzy in the first one, too close to the camera, and Shiro’s looking after him, face calm and sweet. In the second picture, they’re both smiling for the camera (although Keith’s correct about his own being mid-movement). Shiro is, of course, casually and devastatingly handsome. He’s a bit blurry in the third picture as he tries to fix Keith’s ears for him. In the final one, they both look stupid, but Keith expected as much. 

“Should we keep moving? There are other exhibits. Or if you want some food, there’s a cafeteria…” Shiro offers, but Keith’s too busy staring at the pictures. 

He’s jostled a bit as the women from before crowd the space for their own photos. One of their photos is of the two of them pushing their masks off and kissing, and a spike of longing lances through Keith as he glances back up at Shiro. The women are giggling, completely blind to Shiro and Keith there. Keith nearly stumbles away in his attempt to give them space, his hand reaching out blindly to touch Shiro’s hand and tug him away. They cross the room, back towards one of the quieter corners. 

Shiro’s laughing, uncertain. “Keith?” 

Keith stares at the four photos. The adoration is clear on Keith’s face, he thinks, in that third picture, as Shiro tries and fails to adjust his headband. His eyes are bright, staring up at Shiro like he’s the entire world, because that’s what he’s always been. He’s embarrassed to think he must always look like that, must always be looking up at Shiro with such aching longing and love. 

The first photo, though. Keith’s glaring at the camera lens, trying to work out when the camera’s going to start clicking away, and Shiro’s looking after him with such open fondness that it nearly steals Keith’s breath. 

It’s almost surreal, to see pictures of themselves. Shiro’s right— they don’t have any pictures of the two of them together, not since before Kerberos. Any pictures of them after their return to Earth are the official Garrison-issued ones, promotional and propaganda only. There are also the slew of amateur and professional paparazzi photos, following the war’s end and their victory. That’d, thankfully, only lasted a few months before interest in the Paladins of Voltron died off as they failed to do anything exciting, and all those photos of him and Shiro together were fuzzy, low-quality, and candid. 

In his hands, though, Keith holds some sort of proof: he and Shiro are here, together. Shiro, in some moments, can look at Keith like _that._

When he looks up at Shiro, there’s that similar look on his face. With a start, Keith realizes that, really, this is the way Shiro always looks at him— kind, sweet, with such clear adoration. Keith looks at Shiro, he knows, like he’s his entire universe (because he is, _he is_ ), but it never occurred to him to notice the way Shiro watched him in turn. 

It nearly bowls Keith over. He marvels at the fact that he’s never noticed it before. He marvels that he’s noticing it _now._

He thinks of the way Shiro touched him— how he’s always touched him, how close they always linger. Shiro’s hand a warm weight against his hip. The way they always sway into one another’s space. 

The way Shiro looked, staring down at the picture Keith drew before tucking it away carefully and securely into his inner jacket pocket. 

Keith looks up at Shiro. Studies him for a moment and takes a deep breath. The war is over, Keith reminds himself. They have time. 

“Shiro,” he says, hushed. “Spin me again. Like before.”

Shiro gives him a curious look but obeys. His hand slides across his body and his arm hooks around him, lifting him. This time, Keith is ready for him, tips up onto his toes and hops up, hands planted on his shoulders. Shiro spins them, arms wrapped around his middle, holding him up above him. 

Keith’s hands flex tight against his shoulders, bracing himself up, and he looks down at Shiro as Shiro looks up at him. Keith licks his lips, an unthinking gesture, and watches Shiro’s eyes flicker and hold, zeroing in on the movement. Another little moment of proof, Keith thinks. 

“Hey, Shiro?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m going to kiss you,” Keith murmurs. Takes that leap. 

Shiro gasps and drops him down, whether from shock or to get him closer, Keith isn’t sure and he doesn’t care. His arms fold over Shiro’s shoulders and curl, anchoring him by the neck and he falls, gentle, against Shiro. He bows his head. He presses his mouth to Shiro’s. 

“Keith,” he feels more than hears Shiro gasp against his mouth. 

Keith kisses him, a slow kiss, gentle and unsure. He starts to pull back but Shiro tightens his hold around his middle, keeping him there even as, finally, Keith’s feet touch ground again. He tightens his hold around Shiro’s neck, pulling him down closer to him and kisses him. 

It is, perhaps unshockingly, as easy as breathing. Keith feels himself melt, feels the weight and pressure of Shiro curled around him, the tentative smile against his mouth as Keith deepens the kiss, sweeps his tongue into his mouth, licks against that smile. He’s glad his grip is so tight if only so Shiro won’t see how his hands are shaking. 

When Keith draws back, Shiro’s eyes stay shut, his mouth quirked into a warm smile, as if still caught in that moment. Keith lets himself study his face. Imagines trying to draw it and knows he’ll never do this expression justice— but maybe someday. The sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his smile. He knows he’ll never be able to capture the look in Shiro’s eyes when he opens them and looks at him. 

“You beat me to it,” Shiro murmurs, voice gravely and deep. “Been trying to find a way to tell you how I feel all day.” 

Relief floods through Keith and he can’t help the little bubble of a laugh. He tips forward, presses his forehead to Shiro’s and watches Shiro’s smile unfurl, grow wider and more boyish. His hands tighten at Keith’s hips, holding him close and steady. 

“You know how I feel,” Keith says.

“I’d hoped,” Shiro agrees. 

It seems laughable, in a way, to think that they’re having this conversation here, that their first kiss is in a low-traveled wing of a niche museum in a city Keith never visits. They’ve been across the universe together, faced down countless instances of death and near-death, fights and near-fights, battles hard won. They’ve seen so much more than any two people should ever have to, and yet here they stand, in dim lighting surrounded by twinkling ballet music and images of hippos in tutus. 

It’s _almost_ laughable. But all Keith can feel is exceptionally light, as if held aloft by Shiro’s arms, again and again, always knowing he’s going to be caught. 

“Why now?” Keith asks, which isn’t what he’d meant to ask but once he voices it, he finds himself curious.

Shiro shrugs, helplessly. “After everything we’ve been through, I just… I could never find the right moment. So I figured I should make the moment. I wanted you to be happy.” 

“I am,” Keith says. “ _You_ make me happy, Shiro.” 

He lifts his hand, fumbling a bit, but manages to cup Shiro’s cheek, his thumb tracing the line of his scar over his cheek. His fingertips touch the fuzzy ends of his sideburn, brushes back with purpose, pushing his fingers through the short strands of silver hair. 

“I don’t need a _moment_ ,” Keith says. “I just want you.” 

“Oh,” Shiro whispers, then beams at him. “Keith.” 

Keith laughs, helpless and a little overwhelmed. “Yeah.” 

They stand there for a moment, smiling at each other. They must look so stupid, but Keith really can’t give a damn. All that matters is looking up at Shiro like this. Touching him. 

“Were you trying to seduce me with hippos, Shiro?” Keith asks, laughing.

“No!” Shiro answers, quickly, his entire face going red. “No, I just—” 

Keith laughs in his face and feels a little bad about it, but can’t help that almost delirious, helpless relief that rushes through him when Shiro cups his hips, his hands slotting into place like they were made to be there, squeezing. 

He runs his hands up Shiro’s chest and rests them there. He can feel the thump of Shiro’s heart beneath one of them. His fingertips trace over the slope of Shiro’s collarbones. 

“You just?” Keith prompts.

“I know we’ve all been… adjusting to the end of the war. You looked like you could use a bit of a break, you know? Just turn your brain off for a little while.” Shiro looks helpless. “And, you know. If I ended up telling you how I felt today, that’d be an added bonus?” 

Keith shakes his head, so fondly. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, knowing he’s being teased and unable to fight back against it, it seems. He closes his eyes. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months now. No moment seemed right.” 

“I can think of at least a hundred moments today alone,” Keith counters. Shiro grumbles something Keith doesn’t quite catch. “You could have walked up to me this morning and been like, ‘Hey, Keith, just so you know? I like you.’” 

“I don’t just _like_ you,” Shiro mutters, face bright red.

Keith’s heart leaps into his throat, delighted and floored. “All the more reason,” he says faintly. He clears his throat. “You know we could have flown anywhere on Earth, literally? We could have gone and seen real hippos, Shiro. In the wild.” 

Shiro considers this and then perks up. “Want to?” 

Keith laughs and wonders if it’s possible or his heart to burst just from love and affection. He feels warm all over, gentled just from the touch of Shiro’s hands, the tenderness in his eyes. 

And it’s his. It’s all his. 

“I’d go anywhere with you,” Keith says, and means it. 

He watches Shiro smile, helpless and boyish, and duck his head as he lets out a soft little laugh. “Geez, Keith. You can’t just say things like that.” 

Keith shakes his head. It’s the truth. Of course he’s going to say it. 

He cups Shiro’s face and draws him down, kissing him again. Because he wants to. Because he _can._

“Let’s go,” Keith decides, stepping back and taking Shiro’s hand. He tugs once, turns, and knows that Shiro’s always going to follow him.

**Author's Note:**

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